


Against the Backdrop of a World Gone Mad

by mariana_oconnor



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe: no powers, Blind Date, Captain America: The Winter Soldier AU, Clint "Human Disaster" Barton, Clint Barton sets a bad example, Deaf Clint Barton, Discussion of serious injury and amputation, Don't try this at home kids, Espionage, Inadvisable medical practices, James "Bad Idea" Barnes, Kisses from Cupid, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, SHIELD has fallen, Steve "Fight Me" Rogers, florist!steve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 12:59:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9658415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariana_oconnor/pseuds/mariana_oconnor
Summary: An AU of Captain America: The WInter Soldier in a universe where neither Captain America nor the Winter Soldier exists.Bucky Barnes will deny that he has a habit of picking up strays. But when he comes across a guy on the side of the road, bleeding and with nothing to his name but a bouquet of roses and a suit that's seen better days, what's he supposed to do? Just leave him there? He's not expecting the guy to have anything to do with Steve's new obsession: the shady organisation SHIELD, which just collapsed very messily all over the Internet. He's definitely not expecting to get involved himself, either physically or emotionally. But he doesn't regret a thing.Well, maybe he regrets the mini-golf.





	1. Day 1: A Bird with a Broken Wing

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Kisses From Cupid](http://madetobeworthy.tumblr.com/post/155927949799) WinterHawk challenge on Tumblr. A few days late, and unbetaed... and still in progress.
> 
> I swear, I was only going to write fluffy little fics, then... this happened. I regret nothing and everything, as always.
> 
> Title from Terry Pratchett's _Moving Pictures_.

Clint doesn’t keep track of where he’s going. His fight or flight instinct is firmly in flight mode and all he knows is he needs to get away.

His mind is reeling. He’s been underwater – no, not water, underground, no, like what you get on beds: blankets? pillows? sheets? _Covers –_ undercovers. He’s been undercover with the – magic.. Magi? No, meaner: Maggia – for three months and now, and now. And now it’s all over. He’s fucked it up again and he doesn’t even know how.

He takes a step too firmly and he feels the shockwave of pain all the way up his side.

His head is ringing. It’s not fair that even deaf he can– his eyes catch sight of a flash of colour and the thought is gone.

He doesn’t remember the New York sidewalk being this uneven, but he keeps stumbling. It can’t be him. Clint’s is sure-footed. Like a kangaroo… no, not a kangaroo… smaller, less weird. Duck. No… less wings. Cat. A cat. Right. What was he thinking about again?

Cats. Cats are okay. They’re like small cuddly death. Mostly cats scratch him. It’s a thing. Clint’s more of a dot person. No. Not dot. Dog.

Is he drunk? There had been drinks at the wedding. He’d had a couple. It was a wedding, he was undercover. Shhhh… don’t tell anyone.

Crap. He wishes he could think straight. Why can’t he think straight?

He thinks maybe he took something.

A pill. He remembers a little white pill to help with the pain. Washed it down with… liquid... red… blood. No, not blood. Another red, wet thing.

_Wine_.

There was blood, though. He remembers blood on his fingers, making them red. Like Nat’s hair.

Hair… head. Blood on his head.

_The bullet._

Shot in the head. No. If you get shot in the head you can’t stand up. Clint’s shot people in the head before. Lots of people. Bang dead. Only one bang needed.

His head hurts. He’s tired.

There is a trash bag tucked into the corner beside the building. It looks squishy, squashy. Comfortable.

Clint could just curl up and sleep. He wants to sleep.

_No_.

No. He has to keep moving. There’s – there’s something… he’s in danger.

Natasha. He has to find Natasha. Or Coulson. Or someone. People after him.

Where the fuck is he?

He should call Phil. Phil will know where he is.

Clint reaches for his phone. It isn’t in his pocket. He reaches for his _other_ pocket with his _other_ hand, but he’s got something in it already.

He looks down.

Flowers. Red. Red is the colour of the day. Red blood. Red wine. Red roses.

They’re pretty. He should give them to someone pretty.

Clint looks up and around him. His feet keep walking on, on, on. There’re people coming for him and he needs both hands, so he needs to get rid of the flowers. So he has to find someone pretty to give them to.

Clint smiles at the fact that he’s worked this out. All he needs now is someone to give the flowers to. Then he can escape and find Nat, or Phil. Or _someone_.

Clint stumbles again. Someone is moving the sidewalk when he’s not looking, he swears. He takes a moment to glare at it, hoping that his expression conveys exactly how annoyed he is. Then, content that he has made his irritation known, and that the sidewalk is now still, Clint starts walking again. Only he forgets to look up before he starts walking. So his second step takes him right into a person walking the other way.

There is a moment when the world spins and Clint is only aware of feeling as though he’s floating, and the worry that he might just float away.

He clutches desperately at the first thing he can reach. A hand clutches back at him. He feels vibrations under his fingers and he opens his eyes.

Huh… he hadn’t realised that he’d closed them.

Clint’s free hand – the one without the flowers – is bunched in the fabric of a jacket. The jacket is covering a broad chest that is... vibrating?

It takes Clint longer than he would care to admit to remember that vibrations are often accompanied by sounds and the only sound Clint can hear right now is that angry ringing noise that’s still echoing in his skull. It’s like silence, but more persistent. His hearing aids aren’t working. Great.

Clint also remembers that chests usually come below heads, so he tilts his own head up further and sees a man’s face. A very pretty face. Clint’s eyes catch on his lips, which are moving in enticing ways.

There’s something Clint is supposed to remember about pretty people, isn’t there? What is it?

He remembers the roses and beams as he shoves them towards the man’s chest.

“For you,” he says.

Then a wave of nausea hits him and Clint throws up. He’s pretty sure he manages to avoid hitting the pretty man or the pretty flowers, though, so that’s good.

*

Bucky’s not having the greatest day. He burnt his breakfast, he’d forgotten to do his laundry, and his phone’s decided to start messing him around again.

So when the drunk guy bumps into him, less than a block away from the family restaurant, making him spill coffee all down his front, he doesn’t really hold back.

He has to grab the idiot to stop him from collapsing backwards even as he snaps for the guy to look where he’s going. It’s more difficult than it should be with only one arm, and he has to drop the remains of his coffee to the ground, where it splashes onto his shoes.

When drunk and handsy – seriously, what’s the guy doing to his chest? It’s like he’s stroking it – finally looks up at him, his pupils are blown to hell. He’s got a face that would be goodlooking, though, if it weren’t covered in patches of mottled purple.

_Shit_. This guy looks like he’s been in a cage fight and lost.

The man pulls back, grinning in a way that splits his lips open again, and then shoves something into Bucky’s chest with a rustle. Bucky looks down automatically, to find a bouquet of a dozen red roses crushed against him.

“Pretty,” the guy says. He’s right, the roses are lovely.

“They’re great, pal,” Bucky says, softening his voice a little as he tries to push them back.

“For you,” the guy says, pushing them back again. His face sets a little stubbornly, reminding Bucky of Steve when he’s on one of his crusades, so Bucky takes them.

Now he can get a good look at him, Bucky’s pretty sure that drunk is the least of this guy’s problems. It’s not just the bruises on his face, either.

The stranger’s dressed up nice – or rather he had been at some point. He’s in a sharp suit, the latest fashion and way out of Bucky’s own modest price range, that fits him like it was tailor-made. It’s ripped in several places, one of the arms hanging off the shoulder, showing a strip of white dress shirt between the ragged seams. His tie, purple silk, is tied around his bicep like a tourniquet. Actually, looking closer, Bucky doesn’t think there’s anything _like_ about it. That _is_ a makeshift tourniquet. The pure white of the shirt collar is also marked with dark red, which seems to be dripping down from his head.

Then the guy looks alarmed, turns to his right, doubles over and throws up. He misses Bucky, thankfully, but he hits a lady walking past and Bucky has to shoo her away when she starts to get vocal, although the man himself doesn’t seem to notice.

“Pal?” The man’s not responding and Bucky looks at him again, then notices the hearing aids.

  1. This guy is officially having a worse day than him if his hearing aids have packed up as well. Bucky looks around briefly to see if the guy belongs to anyone, but everyone else is studiously ignoring them. It looks like it’s Bucky’s turn to be the good Samaritan today. So he tucks the flowers under his arm, wincing at what Steve would say if he saw how Bucky was treating a bouquet of roses, and tries to remember what little sign language he knows. He and Steve had learned some when they were younger.



Luckily the sign for ‘hospital’ only needs one hand, even if it’s awkward with the roses in the way.

He has to do it a couple of times before the guy focuses on him properly.

The vehement head shaking means the guy has to throw up again, but the message is as clear as the sour scent of vomit, which makes Bucky’s nose wrinkle. No hospital. The guy’s confused, but he seems pretty certain. That means the next best thing is Kim at the restaurant, who’s training to be a doctor. She’s going to kill him, but the mystery guy has started muttering about people finding him and, well, what’s family for?

Belatedly, Bucky remembers that he’s still staring at the guy and he’s pretty sure that’s a danger sign when you haven’t been properly introduced. Bucky blames the lack of coffee, which is now in a puddle on the sidewalk.

Introductions, though. That’s a thing.

Bucky’s grateful that the ASL alphabet only requires one hand, and he points at himself and spells out his name. It’s slow, because it’s been years since he used it, but he manages it, just.

“Bucky?” the guy says, and Bucky nods. “I’m Clint,” the guy replies. Bucky hadn’t really been expecting a name in return, not with the state the guy’s in and his insistence on no hospitals.

Bucky can’t remember ‘nice to meet you’ in ASL – and what does it say about him and Steve that ‘hospital’ came up more often? – so he just smiles as pleasantly as he can. He is rewarded with a smile in return, then the guy – Clint – starts to lurch away, but Bucky grasps his arm and pulls him back before releasing him to sign ‘come’ and pointing at himself before pointing down the street towards the restaurant. He remembers the sign for ‘food’, so he makes that, but the only sign he knew for ‘work’ requires two hands, so that’s as much of an explanation as he can give.

Clint seems to perk up a bit at the offer of food, but then his face falls again, almost comically, looking utterly miserable.

Steve’s going to kill him for taking in a stray.

“I haven’t got any money,” Clint says, patting his pockets pathetically.

“Don’t need any,” Bucky says, before remembering the hearing aids and _shit_ , he’d never learnt that from Steve’s books and videos. He shrugs, trying to convey that it doesn’t matter. Clint seems to get the point and allows Bucky to lead him down the street and towards the restaurant.

When Bucky tugs him into the alleyway to get to the kitchen door, Clint tenses and looks at him with suspicion. Bucky is suddenly aware that Clint is taller than him and, under the suit, the body that Bucky had maybe taken a moment to admire earlier, is pretty much made of muscle. For a second the dopey mess of a guy looks genuinely dangerous.

Bucky points at the door and makes the sign for food again. Clint relaxes slightly, but he’s still on edge. The tension is clear in his shoulders, right up until they step through the door and into the chaos of the kitchen.

The noise and the smell hit Bucky in tandem. Loud voices, the clatter of pans, the hum of an electric whisk, and the rich aroma of garlic, onion, meat, roasted vegetables and cheese.

It smells like home. Bucky’s mouth, as always, starts watering immediately, a Pavlovian response to his family’s cooking.

“ _James_!” a voice bellows over the hubbub. “You’re late! Again!”

His ma emerges from the steam and melee like a ship through fog. The crowd parts before her.

“Sorry ma,” Bucky says with a grin. “I got held up.” His ma snorts.

“Of course you did,” she tells him, then she notices Clint. “And look what the cat’s dragged in. You look like you’ve been out in a hurricane, sweetheart.” Clint just blinks at her, then waves, uncertain and spaced out.

“He’s deaf,” Bucky says, making the sign while he says it. “Don’t know what happened to him, just found him on the sidewalk.” Ma nods and looks Clint up and down, then glances back at Bucky with an amused twist to her lips.

“Did you, indeed?” she asks. Bucky doesn’t dignify that with an answer, but hi ma’s not put off, she charges ahead at full speed. “Are those for me or did you find them on the sidewalk too?” she asks, looking pointedly at the roses. Bucky glances at them too, still tucked under his arm.

“He had ‘em with him,” Bucky says. “Gave them to me.”

He’s suddenly aware that, to Clint, this entire conversation might as well not be happening. His ma would kill him for being this rude. Bucky angles his head so that Clint can see his mouth and hopes he knows how to lip read, because they’ve pretty much exhausted Bucky’s knowledge of ASL.

“I’ll put them in some water,” Ma says, deftly slipping the roses out from under Bucky’s arm so that he doesn’t hand to bend it back on itself to get them. “And in the office, away from this humidity,” she says with a nod, then she looks back at Clint. “Your friend can stay in there, too.”

Bucky turns to face Clint fully.

“You can stay in the office,” he says, pointing. He waits until Clint’s looking back at him before continuing. “My sister’s learnin’ to be a doctor–” he accompanies his words with the signs he can remember, but his memory’s sketchy. “I think she should take a look at you.”

Clint raises a hand to scratch his head, then winces and pulls it back. There’s blood on his fingertips.

“Yeah,” Clint says, after staring at the blood for a moment. “Maybe that’s a good idea.” He sways on his feet and Bucky gives up being polite and herds him into the office. As he turns to shut the door, he hears his ma calling out:

“ _Kimberly. James has brought another pretty bird home for you to patch up._ ”

Bucky sighs and shakes his head as the door clicks shut. The background noise dims. You find one bird with a broken wing when you’re a kid and no one lets you live it down.

He turns to look at Clint, who stares back at him.

Well, this is awkward.

Clint’s eyes seem to be focusing better than they were before, but he’s still out of it. He’s not swaying on his feet as much, though. Bucky takes that as a good sign.

“Sit down,” Bucky says, pointing at one of the chairs. Clint considers it for a moment, then takes a seat.

Kim appears a few seconds later, looking at Bucky with a raised eyebrow before she catches sight of Clint. Her eyes widen and she glances back at Bucky, who just shrugs.

“You’re the doc?” Clint asks.

“In training,” Kim says. “Not qualified yet, but…” she squares her shoulders in determination. “Let’s see what we can do for you.”

“Kim-“ Bucky starts, but she holds up a hand.

“You’re late for work, Jamie. You know how much your Ma hates tardiness.”

She’s not wrong about that, and while his mother will have no problem with Clint, Bucky being late for work is a crime. Punctuality has always been her watchword.

Sure enough, Winifred Barnes looks significantly at the clock when he emerges.

“Sorry ma,” he tells her, pecking her on the cheek.

“Don’t be sorry, be on time,” she says. “Table five just sat down. Go see what they want to drink.”

The restaurant barely stops, and when he pops into the office to check on Clint in the brief lull between the late-lunchers and the early dinner crowd, the guy’s asleep. But he’s snoring fit to wake the dead, so Bucky guesses he’s still alive.

When Bucky manages to check his phone, he’s got a ton of texts from Steve. Something about the events in D.C. yesterday, where the senator died. Bucky hadn’t been paying much attention. With three jobs he doesn’t have a lot of time to spare for TV, but apparently there’s been some sort of data leak again. Steve is adamant that civil liberties are being infringed. There’s a lot of caps locking going on and Steve’s probably going to be protesting things in the near future. Bucky will wait until he’s not dealing with customers and their fake allergies before he tries to work out what exactly Steve’s talking about. It’s probably important. It usually is.

Dinner keeps him on his toes. There are difficult customers, customers who make jokes about his empty sleeve, and one table that leaves a religious tract rather than a tip. He chucks it straight into the trash can, silently fuming.

It seems like no time at all before his shift is over and Becca’s relieving him.

“I hear you picked up another stray,” she says as he hands off his tables to her.

“I don’t know why people keep acting like this is a habit,” he mutters, but she just gives him an unimpressed look and shakes her head.

“Nevermind,” she says. “Is he cute?”

“He’s a mess,” Bucky says.

“But is he a _hot_ mess?” she asks, waggling her eyebrows as she ties on her apron.

“Becca…” he growls, though he knows it won’t stop her. She just laughs and pats his cheek.

“Don’t be so grumpy. It’s not a good look if you’re going for the knight in shining armour aesthetic.” Then she swirls off through the door.

“What does that even mean?” Bucky asks of no one in particular.

“James!” His mother’s voice calls and she appears in front of him, a delivery bag in hand. She holds it out to him. “For your boy,” she says.

“He’s not my–”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Kimberly says she patched him up as best she can, and he should be fine with some rest. I put some Advil in the bag.”

Bucky wants to protest that he isn’t taking the guy, Clint, home. The apartment’s too cramped with just him and Steve. Plus, he doesn’t even know the guy. Not to mention that Clint’s probably got someone looking for him. He’s wearing a nice suit, or he had been before someone tried to rip it off him, and carrying a very expensive bouquet of roses. People with those sorts of things don’t just disappear without someone looking for them.

Although… the state Clint’s in and his insistence on no hospital probably means that at least some of the people after him are the not so friendly kind.

Bucky sticks his head in at the office door and Clint turns to him straight away, hand reaching for something over his shoulder that isn’t there. Every line of him is tense until he register’s Bucky’s face, then the firm look on his face dissolves into a rueful grin.

“Guess you’re the guy who brought me here,” Clint says. “Sorry. My memory’s a bit fuzzy. I’ve got a concussion or something. Must have been bad, they usually don’t affect me this badly.”

“Usually?” Bucky asks, frowning at the idea. If this guy gets hurt on the regular… Bucky’s mind jumps to those things you read about domestic abuse. All dressed up, a nice bunch of flowers and beat to hell and back. Warning bells are ringing.

Clint cocks his head to one side, before waving it off.

“Yeah, I’m accident prone.” The chuckle that comes with the words sounds off, like Clint’s got some sort of inside joke with himself.

_Right_ , Bucky thinks. Then he realises that Clint can hear him. They have been having this conversation without any sign language or anything.

“Your–” He falters because his ma’s always on at him about tact and respect and all that shit, but what’s a tactful way to ask a guy if they’re deaf or not. “You can hear me?” he settles on in the end.

“Oh! Yeah. I recharged ‘em,” Clint gestures to his ears. “Should’ve done it last night, but there were other things to do.” He shrugs. “Look. Thanks for the assist, dude.”

“Bucky,” Bucky corrects.

“Right – I remember. You signed that.” Clint grins, bright and beautiful, like his face isn’t one giant bruise. “Guess my luck started to look up when I ran into you. I’m–”

“Clint,” Bucky says. Clint blinks at him, some of the earlier tension returning to his posture. His smile falls. “You, uh, you told me earlier?”

“Oh,” Clint says thoughtfully. “I was out of it.” He swings himself up off the sofa and sways with a wince. “I owe you one.”

Bucky shifts uncomfortably.

“I didn’t do much.”

“You did loads,” Clint says, waving a hand in the air for emphasis. “But I – look. You’ve been great and I should get out of your hair. I mean.” Clint looks around. “This looks like somebody’s office.”

“Ma’s,” Bucky replies. “She’s–”

“I’m in the way,” Clint says. “So I’m feeling better now. I’ll just–”

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” Bucky says firmly. “Well… you are, but not on your own,” he corrects. “Ma’d kill me if I just let you wander off into the night. Kimmy would too.”

“Kimmy? She’s the doctor?” Clint asks.

“Learnin’ to be,” Bucky says, pride filling his voice. “But don’t call her Kimmy. She’d skin me alive. It’s Kim, now. Or Kimberly if she’s feelin’ posh.” He makes a face. The grin returns to Clint’s face. It’s a little lopsided, and it looks painful, but it makes the corners of Bucky’s mouth pull up in response. He likes that smile.

“Little sister?” Clint asks and Bucky nods.

“So you see, you haven’t got a choice,” Bucky says quickly. Clint frowns at him.

“About what?”

“About helpin’ me out,” Bucky tells him. “I did you a favour, now you’ve gotta help me.”

“Is that right?” Clint asks. His eyes aren’t unfocused any more. They’re piercing, like he can see right through Bucky and out the other side. But they’re crinkled at the edges with amusement. Bucky can’t keep himself from smiling again. His stomach twists a little.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “If you walk out now, I’m a dead man.” Clint considers this for a moment, then takes a step forwards.

“You’re assuming I’m a good guy,” he says, his voice a little deeper than before.

“Well, if appealing to your conscience won’t work, I could always try bribery.” Bucky lifts up the delivery bag. “I’ve got food.”

Clint’s stomach growls noisily, like it’s been waiting for its cue, and Bucky chuckles.

“Is there coffee?” Clint asks.

“That could be arranged.”

*

Clint would’ve thought that he’d already used up his quota of stupid for the week, but apparently not. He’s burned, his marks are hunting him down, and he should be heading for the nearest safe house and holing up.

Priority number one is to get to a phone, preferably one that’s untraceable. He lost his own sometime around when the best man’s speech turned into a bloodbath. He needs to call this in. He should have done it hours ago, but his brain hadn’t been able to think in a straight line.

Food, though, and shelter: those things aren’t to be sniffed at. He’s gone hungry before, and no doubt he’ll do it again, but it’s not pleasant. So he’ll let this guy feed him, then slip out in the middle of the night. He’ll make sure no one can trace him back to Bucky and his family. It’s the least he can do.

The guy’s juggling the food and his cell phone with his one hand, so that the bag’s haing off his wrist and the phone’s in his hand. Clint opens his mouth to offer to take the bag, but by the time it’s registered, Bucky’s already got it handled.

Clint looks at Bucky’s face instead, which isn’t exactly a chore, although he does look a bit frowny.

“Everything OK?” Clint asks. It’s not really his place to ask, but if Bucky needs someone shooting, then Clint’s more than happy to do the job.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, unaware that Clint’s contemplating murder in his name. He gives a sigh, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “There was some sort of secret document leaked or something, about that senator that died yesterday, and Steve, my roommate, he’s getting’ all up in arms about civil liberties.”

“A senator died?” Clint asks, his brain kicking into action. There are such things as coincidences of course, but a senator dies on the same day that Clint’s cover’s blown. And Bucky said something about a secret document. All his hair’s standing on end. Something’s up.

“Yeah, yesterday. You didn’t…?” Bucky looks over at him, taking in Clint’s rumpled appearance. The bloody clothes are staring to chafe a bit. It’s not the most comfortable Clint’s ever been. “I guess you had other things on your mind. But someone dumper these files from some super secret organisation on the Internet and apparently it was an assassination or something.”

“A… super secret organisation?” Clint asks. He can feel the air thickening in his throat. It can’t have been. There’s no way. There are measures in place to stop that from happening. There are processes and protocols and that would be _treason_. His heart drops like a stone. Because Clint is never that lucky. He knows what this means.

“Sword, or Shield or something,” Bucky says, casually, like his words haven’t just blown Clint’s world apart. “Or Hydra, maybe. Steve wasn’t too clear in his message. He’s a bit excited.”

There is a particular skill to appearing OK on the surface while inside your world falls apart. Clint’s had more practice at it than he would have liked.

Hydra, he dismisses. Nothing more than a bedtime story to scare baby agents. Rumours that the shadowy agency from the old Captain America comics was real, that they were lurking out of sight, waiting for their moment to pounce.

But if SHIELD’s files, _any_ of SHIELD’s files, are online then…

Clint knows his smile is fixed on his face. His expression frozen until his mind can catch up with him. He knows he’s walking on automatic. Inside his head everything’s churning. He feels as though every eye is on him. There’s no doubt now how the Maggia knew who he was. He’s in that info-dump and who knows how much of him is out there now. Just sitting online for people to see.

Clint’s never felt this naked in his life, and there’s a tally chart on the wall of the kitchen in the SHIELD break room keeping track of how many times he’s had to be extracted sans clothing. When he reaches twenty they’re going to buy him dinner.

Or they were.

Now... shit. He doesn’t have enough info. He doesn’t know how screwed he is. How screwed they all are. If SHIELD’s files are out there, then he’s not the only one who’s been left hanging.

He walks into Bucky for the second time that day. It’s a pity he’s distracted, because Bucky moves away before Clint can make the most of the contact.

“This is it,” Bucky says, gesturing at the building in front of them. He looks a little uncomfortable now. “It’s a bit small.” Clint blinks.

“Four walls and a roof is enough for me,” he says with a shrug. It’s true. Once he slept in a car for three weeks in Berlin. It hadn’t even been his car; the owner had not been impressed when they found him.

“Huh?” Bucky says. “Woulda thought you’d be used to a higher class of living, with that suit.”

Clint looks down at himself. He’d completely forgotten the suit. Appropriate wedding gear, but no good for a daring escape. James Bond could keep his fashion advice to himself.

“There was a wedding,” Clint says, “Someone else was paying.” It had been on the SHIELD expenses account. God, Clint bets that won’t work anymore.

Bucky nods, but he doesn’t seem convinced. They step inside and trudge up the stairs to the third flood.

Bucky opens the apartment door and, as soon as Clint walks in he’s struck with the feeling of _home_. There are pictures on the walls, offs and ends scattered about. Old, mismatched furniture has settled into place comfortably, and there is just enough mess to make the small apartment feel lived in.

Clint’s not really got a home. He has an apartment and a room at SHIELD HQ when he needs it, but he guesses both those places are in the past now. He hardly uses them anyway. He lives on assignment. Safe houses and hotel rooms if he’s lucky, wherever he can find somewhere to sleep if he’s not.

This place, though. It’s not warm, Clint has a suspicion that the heating bill is one that Bucky finds it difficult to pay, but it is home.

“Buck!” a voice calls and Clint realises that there is someone sitting on the sofa, engulfed by a multi-coloured blanket. It takes him a moment to realise that some of the colour is not blanket at all, but the person’s hair. This must be Steve, Clint’s best bet for finding out what’s going on until he can get in touch with SHIELD.

Steve’s eyes fix on Clint and narrow. The guy’s tiny, physically, but as soon as Clint catches his attention it’s as though Steve grows a foot; there’s a force to his gaze that reminds Clint of Fury.

“Who’s this?” Steve asks.

“I’m Clint. You must be Steve,” Clint says, offering his hand in sacrifice. Steve takes it, shaking firmly.

“Steve Rogers,” he says. “I’m sorry. Bucky hasn’t mentioned you.”

“Prob’ly because I only met him today,” Bucky says calmly as Steve’s eyes slide to him in question. “Clint’s in a spot of trouble. I’m helpin’ him out.”

“Thought I was helping you out,” Clint protests. The light tone sounds forced to him, but Bucky and Steve don’t know him well enough to tell. He doesn’t want to make small talk. He wants to ask Steve about SHIELD, but that wouldn’t appear normal. He’s got to be careful. He’s got no back-up and no one even knows where he is. Plus, if Steve is as bent on justice and transparency as Bucky implied, then he won’t be happy to find a SHIELD agent taking advantage of his hospitality.

“What, Steve? You gonna turn him out?” Bucky asks. He doesn’t seem bothered by the sour twist to Steve’s mouth, so Clint follows his example and tries to relax. It’s easier before Bucky heads to the kitchen to set down the bag of food. In his absence, Clint feels cold spread down his side. Of course, that’s probably because Clint’s been standing too close. He’s terrible with personal space.

It could also be that Bucky left him alone with Steve. Clint’ trained in five different martial arts, knows how to use dozens of weapons with deadly skill, and he’s faced off against the worst scum the world has to offer, but he’s pretty sure that if skinny Steve Rogers, with his blue and red hair, wanted to throw Clint out of this room, Clint wouldn’t be on the winning team.

Steve sighs.

“Of course not,” he says in answer to Bucky’s question. “I’m sorry, Clint. If Bucky says you can stay of course you can stay.” He looks a bit shame-faced.

“All those conspiracy theories are making you paranoid,” Bucky comments and Steve’s guilt disappears, replaced by earnestness.

“They’re not conspiracy theories, Buck! It’s true. That’s what I was telling you. There’s this organisation called SHIELD, Strategic Homeland something or other, or at least there was.”

“Was?” Clint asks, unable to hold his tongue. Steve doesn’t seem to think it’s a strange question, though.

“Until yesterday. That’s when it happened.”

Clint’s seen this kind of intense enthusiasm before. It’s usually coupled with idealism a mile wide, and often an early gravestone, too.

“What happened to it?” Bucky asks. Clint could kiss him, because Clint knows he wouldn’t have been able to ask that question calmly.

“Widespread corruption,” Steve says. “Apparently they’d been infiltrated by another organisation – Hydra.”

“Wait,” Clint says, holding up a hand. “Hydra like in the Captain America comics?” Clint asks. Steve nods.

“All the way up to the top ranks,” Steve confirms. Clint feels sick. He can feel the nausea in his stomach and all the way up his gullet. He has to keep it down, though. Hydra aren’t real. This can’t be real. There’s no way some Nazi organisation from a comic book has just pulled his life apart. This has to be wrong. It has to be. “But that’s not even the worst of it,” Steve continues. He doesn’t sound gleeful, just very sure of himself. “In some sort of pre-emptive strike, someone dumped all the files on the Internet.”

“All what files?” Clint asks. He feels hollow and echoey, like a drum. The only real thing about him is his heartbeat.

“All of them,” Steve says. “Hydra, SHIELD, all of it. There are people online going through it all and the stuff they’re finding: covert military operations on American soil, US citizens held without due process, tortured, locked up in black sites. Assassinations,” the level of disgust in Steve’s voice makes Clint wince. “I just read a report about a mission to assassinate the prime minister of Latveria.”

Shit. Clint remembers that one. He’d been Nat’s back up. Had it been his report Steve was reading? Fuck. Those reports are not suitable for public consumption. Coulson is the only one who reads them. Not anymore it seems, though.

“The guy who wrote it was _joking_ about it,” Steve says.

Yup, definitely one of Clint’s. Fuck. He’s a terrible person. He’s going to be sick.

Clint needs a phone. He needs a phone now. He needs to know that Nat and Coulson – shit, everyone – are okay. Are they even still alive? Is any of this true? Hydra? He can’t believe it.

“Can I…?” Clint stops himself before he finishes the sentence. He can’t use a phone that can be traced. If this is real then the sort of problems that he could bring down on these people, whose only mistake is trying to help Clint out. But… he needs to contact Coulson and, in the chaos this must have caused, no one’s going to notice one little phone call, are they?

Yeah, they might, Clint answers his own question as he sits down on the sofa heavily, wincing as the movement jars his ribs. It’s just his luck that Steve notices his expression.

“What happened to you?” Steve asks, forgetting justice for a minute, to Clint’s dismay. Clint knows what happened to him, he needs to know what happened to SHIELD.

“Went to a wedding,” Clint says. “Turned into a brawl.” In essence he’s telling the truth, just missing a few minor details.

“Ma gave me some food,” Bucky says, interrupting before Steve can ask anything more. Clint shoots him a grateful look over Steve’s shoulder. “No need to cook.”

Food lightens the mood, though Clint’s mind is still a mess of different thoughts and problems. The food is good, when he reminds himself to taste it, ut he’s intent on getting as many answers from Steve as possible.

The more he finds out, the more it crystallises that this is real. It is happening. SHIELD isn’t just in trouble, it’s gone. Clint is alone. Again. Who knows where Nat is now?

His mind rebels against the thought, the little niggling doubt of ‘what if’: What if the people he thinks of as friends are actually Hydra? What if they’re gone? What if they died yesterday, when Clint didn’t even know what was going on? What if? What if? What if? His mind chases its own tail: round and round and round.

He’s not doing a very good job of hiding his preoccupation. Bucky notices and cuts over Steve’s opinions on surveillance ethics.

“Hey,” Bucky says, tapping Clint’s arm. “You look half dead, you should get some sleep.”

Clint blinks at him, his vision blurring slightly, so Bucky is all soft around the edges and Steve’s just a blur of red, blue and indignation in the corner.

“Yeah,” Clint says. “I’ll take the couch.”

*

Bucky stares at Clint. The man looks like he’s more bruise than person right now and Bucky tells him so.

“You can have my bed and I’ll find you something to sleep in.”

“I can’t take your bed,” Clint says, reaching up to scratch his head again, and wincing when he touches the injury there.

“You can hardly sleep on the sofa like this,” Bucky points out.

“But–”

“And I’m not going to bed for a while anyway,” Bucky continues, cutting off Clint’s protests before he can finish them. “So if you sleep on the sofa you’ll just be in my way.”

Clint blinks at him again, looking confused. His mouth opens and closes a few times, then shuts abruptly and his eyes narrow. He’s  got that look again, the one that seems like he’s looking right into Bucky’s head, trying to work him out. Bucky refuses to back down and stares straight back.

“Go take a shower,” he says. “I don’t want blood all over my bed.”

An image flashes into Bucky’s head of Clint in his bed. It makes a spike of arousal jolt through him, but he smothers it. The guy’s a mess, and still sort of out of it. Bucky’s not _that_ kind of guy.

He shows Clint where the bathroom is and how to use the shower – it’s temperamental at best – grabbing a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt on the way and pushing them into Clint’s hands.

Bucky returns to the living area alone, but doesn’t quite relax until he hears the spatter of water as he sits down next to Steve. He knows what’s coming, and he knows he has to face the music.

“Buck–”

“You wanted me to leave him in the street?” Bucky asks. “He looks like he went ten rounds with a herd of buffalo.”

“Buck–”

“He barely knew his own name when I found him. No phone. No cash. Just a bunch of roses.”

“ _Bucky!_ ” Steve snaps. “I’m not saying you shoulda left him anywhere; it’s just… I think that was a bullet wound, Buck.”

“What?” Bucky turns in alarm towards the bathroom door, through which tuneless whistling meanders.

“On his head, at the back,” Steve says.

“I think I’d’a noticed if he’d been shot in the head,” Bucky says.

“Not like shot in the head, like the bullet grazed him or somethin’,” Steve says.

“And how would you know what a bullet wound looks like?” Bucky asks. He folds his arm over his chest, but it doesn’t have the same effect. Mostly it just looks like he’s hugging himself. Bucky hisses in annoyance.

“Ma used to work the ER up at the hospital,” Steve reminds him. “I’d see stuff when I was waiting for her shift to finish.”

Bucky’s shoulders slump.

“How in hell did he get shot in the head at a wedding?” he asks.

“If he was at a wedding at all,” Steve says, his tone ominous.

“Sharp suit and flowers. I don’t think he was robbing a bank,” Bucky says.

“Thought it was the bride who held the flowers at a wedding,” Steve says. “But, I mean – there are spies.”

“You have gotta be kiddin’ me!” Bucky says with a burst of laughter. “Trust me. He’s no James Bond. The guy threw up on my shoes. He’s deaf.”

“Just because he’s deaf doesn’t mean he can’t–”

“I _know_ , but don’t these super secret spy organisations tend to have strict hiring policies and stuff. You can’t get into the army if you’re hard of hearing, I remember you sulked for a week when you found that out, and you’re only partially deaf in one ear. I doubt spies are any different.”

“Yeah, but–” Steve says.

“Stevie,” Bucky says, as calmly as he can manage. “He’s got secrets, sure. But he’s not an international man of mystery, alright? I know you’re into all that political shit and conspiracy theories, but stuff like that doesn’t happen to guys like us. We’re just normal people with normal jobs.”

“Right,” Steve says, but his jaw’s set stubbornly and Bucky knows he’s not getting through that thick skull. Steve’ll be texting Wilson about this as soon as Bucky’s back is turned. With a bit of luck, Sam’ll be just as amused by Steve’s paranoia as Bucky is.

The shower turns off and Steve flicks the TV on quickly. He’s clearly trying to be sneaky as he steals glances at Clint out of the corner of his eye.

Bucky’s sweatpants are too short on Clint’s legs, so the bones of his ankles are clearly visible. The t-shirt’s a good fit, though maybe a bit tight on the arms. Bucky’s gaze slowly pulls upwards until it reaches Clint’s face and he realises that he’s staring back.

“I’ll be going to bed, then,” Clint says, as their gazes catch. They stare at each other for another long moment before Bucky realises the conversational ball is, in fact, in his court.

“G’night,” he says.

“Night,” Clint replies, turning and heading into Bucky’s room. Bucky watches him go, right up until the door blocks his view. His eyes rove over the shift of muscles in Clint’s back beneath the thin cotton.

Clint pauses on the threshold and turns back, looking a little bashful.

“Thanks for everything,” he says.

“No problem,” Bucky replies. Then he watches the door close behind Clint’s back.

“Oh,” Steve says, knowingly. “It’s like that.”

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Bucky says, turning to stare at the TV screen, though he couldn’t tell what was on for the life of him.

“You want to be a _Bond girl_ ,” Steve says, because he knows nothing and his mouth’s too big for his brain.

“I don’t want to be a Bond girl,” Bucky says. Not a phrase he’d ever considered before.

“Mmhm.”

“Stevie.”

“ _Oh James_ ,” Steve says in a breathy, high-pitched voice. When Bucky glances over, Steve’s batting his eyelashes like he’s got a fly squashed onto his eyeball.

“Not a good look on you,” Bucky says, refusing to rise to the bait.

Steve opens his mouth to reply, but the news comes on the TV screen, and he shuts up to listen to the latest updates to SHIELDgate, as they’re calling it.

Bucky tries to concentrate, but his eyes keep dragging back to the closed door of his bedroom. Something’s up, and he’s going to find out what it is.


	2. Day 2: No Ground to Run To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint checks his messages, Bucky has a blind date, and Steve was totally right about Bucky being a Bond Girl.

Clint wakes in the middle of the night. It’s intentional; he’s pretty good at waking when he needs to, even if outside of missions he could sleep through a hurricane. He sleeps with a hair-trigger when he’s in danger.

A look at Bucky’s alarm clock tells him that it’s 3:30 AM. Perfect timing for an early morning getaway before anyone gets up.

He feels a pang of guilt, because he’s going to have to steal some clothes, but he’ll send some money when he gets a chance. If he gets a chance. Better losing some clothing than losing their lives to the Maggia.

He grabs clothes that are buried under al the others – less likely they’ll be missed. A pair of jeans worn through at the knees, an old t-shirt with a pop culture reference that’s twenty years out of date, and a hoodie that’s a luminous shade of purple. He wears his own underwear, there is such a thing as too far, then, when he’s dressed, he sneaks out of the room. He’s a fucking ninja, okay. Sure, Natasha could walk on broken glass without making a sound, but Clint can be stealthy too.

He shuts the door quietly behind him, then turns around–

–to see Steve Rogers perched on a stool in the kitchen area, calmly munching cereal.

Clint does not jump out of his skin. He is a highly trained operative with years of experience. Short, angry men eating breakfast do not scare him, no matter how intense their gazes may be.

“It’s three thirty,” Clint says, keeping his voice low. Who gets up at three thirty?

“It is,” Steve agrees.

“Why are you awake?” Clint asks.

“I’m a florist,” Steve says. “I have to get up early to go to the market to get stock in.”

Clint pauses to consider this. He hasn’t, to be honest, ever contemplated the working day of a florist, or indeed how the flowers got from nature to being propped up in tubs in shops.

“Aren’t they… delivered?” he asks. Steve’s face wrinkles in disgust.

“if you don’t care what they look like,” he says. Apparently Clint has insulted him. That feels like a bad idea. Steve’s eyes narrow and Clint feels extremely guilty. He’s not used to feeling guilty. But Steve’s making him feel as though sneaking away in the middle of the night is somehow a rude thing to do. “What are you doing up?” Steve asks.

“Uh…” Good one, Clint. That’s very eloquent. SHIELD obviously trained you well. He winces at his own inadequacy.

Steve sets his bowl down firmly on the counter top.

“I don’t know who you are,” Steve says. “I don’t know what happened to you. I’m pretty sure you’re in the kind of trouble that comes with a capital T, and probably with some police involved. But I need to know, before you walk out that door, if you’ve got some place to go.”

Clint stares at him. That was not what he was expecting. He was expecting threats, a warning to never come back. He was expecting a shovel talk, to be honest. He’d seen the suspicious glances the night before, and he’s pretty sure Steve Rogers doesn’t like him. If he were going to put money on it, he’d have bet that Steve would escort him out the door personally. Concern for his well-being is confusing.

“I’ve got a friend,” Clint says. He pushes his hand through his hair and then remembers why he wasn’t doing that. His fingers catch on the bullet wound. Ow. Note to self: don’t get shot in the head again. It’s painful as fuck. “She’s… I’ll find her.” There’s no way they took out Natasha. Natasha survives; it’s what she does. And there’s no way, after everything, that she’s Hydra. He’ll find Natasha. They have protocols for this. He’ll find Nat and everything will be…

…well, it’ll be fucked up, but at least he won’t be on his own.

Steve’s frowning at him.

“How are you going to contact her?” he asks. “Bucky said you’d lost your phone and your wallet.”

Clint shrugs. He’s been in worse spots than this before.

“I’ll work it out.”

“No,” Steve gets up and picks something up from the counter. “Here.” He holds out the object and Clint looks down. It’s a phone.

“What?” Clint looks at it again, because this cannot be what he thinks it is.”

“It’s a phone,” Steve says.

“It’s _your_ phone,” Clint says.

“Yes, and I’m letting you borrow it. You need it more than I do right now. Do you know your friend’s number?”

“Yes.” Clint knows seven of Nat’s numbers off by heart. “But I–”

“Take it,” Steve says. His face is firm and defiant. Clint’s going to lose this argument.

“I can’t take your phone!” Clint pleads. _Who are these people,_ Clint thinks, _who just keep_ giving _him things?_ “Look. Just. I just need a few bucks for a payphone or something.”

“Do payphones even exist anymore?” Steve asks. “And this way, if you can’t find your friend, you can call us. You have someone to call.”

“You don’t even know me,” Clint protests.

“You’re in trouble,” Steve says. Like it’s just that simple. Like if someone’s in trouble you just help them without even thinking about it. Clint’s wandered into the twilight zone.

“I’m sneaking out in the middle of the night stealing your friend’s clothes,” Clint points out.

“You could hardly wear your own,” Steve says, entirely too reasonably. “They were ruined. And Bucky won’t mind. He hasn’t worn those in years. Even if he had, he wouldn’t mind. He wants to help. Now, take the phone.”

Clint takes the phone. It’s automatic. There’s a tone in Steve’s voice that brooks no arguments. It reminds Clint of the commanding officers he’s had: the good ones. When the phone is in his grasp, Steve smiles.

“Good. Now call Bucky when you find your friend, so we know you’re alright. Or call us if you don’t find her, so we can come and get you. Get it back to me when you don’t need it anymore. You know where I live.”

“Right,” Clint looks down at the phone.

“The PIN is 2786,” Steve says.

Clint’s still looking at the phone when Steve finishes his breakfast and heads for the door.

“Coming?” Steve asks, and Clint follows almost without meaning to.

They separate on the street, Steve clapping Clint on the shoulder with more strength than Clint would have expected.

“Take care of yourself,” Steve says.

“You too,” Clint replies, before casting a look up at the building. He feels like he’s leaving something behind here. It’s only been a few hours and he feels like a little part of him’s empty now. “And… Bucky too.” Steve grins.

“I always do.”

They walk in opposite directions. Steve’s phone is heavy in the pockets of Bucky’s old jeans and, if Clint casts a few looks back over his shoulder down the quiet street to where the apartment building is being swallowed up by the darkness, it’s nobody’s business but his own.

*

Bucky’s not used to the dawn light that pours through Steve’s thin curtains. His own room’s on the other side of the building and it doesn’t get any daylight until about five in the afternoon.

It takes him a moment to remember the room juggling from the night before, as Steve pointed out that if Bucky slept on the sofa, he’d only end up being woken up when Steve got ready for work in the morning.

It’s a Tuesday, which means Bucky’s working at the repair shop, so he doesn’t have the luxury of a lie-in. He wonders if Clint will want to stick around the apartment or come to the shop with him. The guy’s will tease him like crazy, but it might be fun to have someone around.

Bucky shakes his head as he rolls out of bed. Clint’s got a life. He’s not going to stick around. Bucky’ll make sure he’s got somewhere to go and then he’ll walk away and they’ll never see each other again. It’s not like they know each other. Liking the way a guy looks doesn’t mean anything in the long run.

As long as Clint has somewhere safe to go. Bucky’s not sure about that.

Steve’s dish is in the sink, where he always leaves it. Other than that, there’s no sign that the place is lived in apart from Bucky himself.

Bucky’s clothes are in his room. He didn’t think about that last night, but he supposes that he should wake Clint up anyway. He doesn’t want to leave the guy alone.

He pushes the door to his room open carefully, and it takes him a second to realise that the rumpled covers aren’t covering anything.

Clint’s gone.

There’s a strange, empty feeling in the pit of Bucky’s stomach that has no business being there. The man’s a stranger. There’s no reason to be upset that he’s gone. Or even that he didn’t say goodbye. The guy was in trouble; it makes sense he’d run. It makes sense. And Bucky’s never going to see him again, and that’s OK too, because there’s no reason why it wouldn’t be. It was one of those stories: ‘ _Remember that guy I found by the side of the road that time?_ ’ Just a story.

Still… there’s something in Bucky’s gut that feels like he _missed_ something.

It’s probably just concern that Clint’s alright. He’ a mess. And he’s in trouble. If he ends up dead in an alleyway, Bucky doesn’t want that on his conscience.

No way to find him now, though.

He sighs and grabs his pants. He’ll never know now, will he?

*

The number he has dialled has not been recognised.

The number he has dialled is out of service.

Silence.

None of Clint’s emergency contact numbers is working. Clint goes through methodically: one number after another after another. Dead end after dead end after dead end.

“Come on,” he says, hunching over on a street corner, shoulders drawn up against the wind. “Pick up. Pickuppickuppickup.” His first order of business was to get a burner phone. Sure, he’s got Steve’s, but he’s not going to have any of the number’s he’s dialling stored on that. Just knowing these numbers could get you in trouble. So now he’s using up the prepaid minutes waiting for people to pick up.

No one picks up.

Clint is not panicking. He still has options. He hasn’t gone through all of Nat’s contacts yet, or Coulson’s.

He dials one of Coulson’s old numbers and just gets dial tone. He’s about to hang up, just on the edge of pulling the handset away from his ear, when it’s interrupted. He almost doesn’t catch it: the hitch is barely there, and on the limits of what his aids can pick up clearly, but it’s a definite _blip_.

And another.

It doesn’t take him long to work out that it’s Morse code. He’s got it translated pretty quickly after that.

The first part is a verification code to prove that Coulson left it. Not that that means much anymore. Were the verifications part of the info-dump? Clint doesn’t know.

KA SHD DN II SHDDN GTGRD DNT RSVP SIGXX GTGD GDLK 30 CL

Clint’s brain translates the shorthand without even thinking about it.

_SHIELD down. I repeat. SHIELD down. Go to ground. Do not respond. Signal compromised. Go to ground. Good luck. I have no more to send. I am closing my station._

He can almost hear Coulson’s voice saying the words as his throat tightens. It’s real. It’s all fucking real.

As the pattern loops round again, Clint pulls the phone away from his head and hits the end call button.

Hearing it like that is different somehow from hearing it from Steve or just getting dead ends.

_Go to ground_. It might be the last instruction Coulson ever gives him and Clint’s not even going to obey it. But, hey, why should today be any different?

He’s going to find Nat. They’re going to find out what happened to SHIELD and they’re going to hunt those Hydra bastards down.

That’s the plan.

But first:

Coffee.

He lifts a few twenties from a man’s pocket. Sure, the guy’s down a few bucks, but Clint just lost his job and he’s not even wearing his own clothes. It’s all about need.

Stolen twenties are accepted just as easily as legally obtained bills in the coffee shop that he heads into, and the barista is more than happy to give him the password for the free Wi-Fi.

He’s been going too low tech. Nat’s not going to be waiting for a phone call.

He uses Steve’s phone to  start checking the message boards for her usernames. Some of the sites are already in Steve’s browser history. The Internet has exploded over the SHIELD files. People are yelling about liberty and justice. Conspiracy theorists are springing up out of the woodwork, and people everywhere are claiming they are SHIELD agents. Or they know SHIELD agents. Or a SHIELD agent once punched them in the face and it was awesome. It’s chaos.

He almost misses it, in the middle of all the hype, that tiny message on the thread about an anime show. It’s the ID picture that catches his eye first, because, if you squint and tilt your head, it looks a little like a red hourglass, like that trick picture: do you see the two faces or do you see the goblet.

Clint sees Nat.

The message itself is bland unless you know what you’re looking for: a codeword to tell the cypher, then a second level of encryption and, underneath it all, a meeting, time, date and location, still encoded in references that only Clint would understand.

Natasha is alive.

Clint feels relief pour over him. Tension he didn’t know he was carrying dissolves.

Natasha is alive.

He lets his head fall down onto the table, unable to hold it up any longer. He feels so tired.

Now he just needs to work out what he’s doing for the next two days until the meeting. Keep his head down. Avoid the Maggia and Hydra – and anyone else who might want a piece of the Amazing Hawkeye.

He can survive 2 days.

*

Bucky’s fixing the exhaust on an old Ford when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

His first thought is that it’s Clint, which is stupid because Clint doesn’t have a phone and, even if he did, he wouldn’t know Bucky’s number. His second thought is that it’s Steve.

It’s not. It’s Becca.

He’s curious about what she wants right up until he opens the message and reads ‘ _Hope you haven’t forgotten your date tonight!_ J’

Bucky had, in fact, forgotten about his date tonight. His blind date. With one of Becca’s friends.

He groans, earning a few looks from the other guys in the shop. Morita calls over to ask what’s up.

“Fucking blind date,” Bucky calls back. The laughter from the others echoes around the room.

“Good!” Morital yells back. “You need to get laid. You’ve had a face like a dog’s backside since you came in this morning.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Cause I had to look at your face all day!”

“Is the guy at least hot?” Gabe asks, coming over.

“How the fuck should I know?” Bucky says, throwing his hands in the air. “It’s called a blind date for a reason.”

“Who’s setting you up, anyway? Steve?”  Gabe says, undeterred.

“No. He knows better,” Bucky says. Although Steve’s never quite forgiven him for all the dates Bucky  had set him up on in the past, he’s been good about not returning the favour. “It’s Becca,” Bucky adds.

“Letting your little sister set you up?” Morita whistles, a smirk on his face. “You’re a braver man than me.”

“Couldn’ exactly stop her,” Bucky grumbles.

“Come on!” Morita says. “You’ll have fun.” Bucky gives him a blank look, but his smile doesn’t waver. “We’ll have to make sure you get out of here on time so you can get yourself all pretty.”

“Aw, Jim,” Bucky says, batting his eyelashes. “I knew you thought I was pretty.”

The teasing continues almost non-stop after that. Bucky’s date is the topic of the day. It helps him get out of his head, and drag his thoughts away from Clint. Although he’d be lying if he didn’t have a strange idle daydream about what if he turned up tonight and found Clint sitting across from him.

But Becca’s been planning this date for weeks. There’s no way it’s Clint.

Every time Becca texts him with an update, the fellas have him read it out so they can all hear. There’s the requisite wolf whistling when Becca instructs him about which jeans to wear: the ones that show off his ass. That starts a competition about who has the best ass in the place. Bucky loses.

The guy he’s meeting is called Brandon. He’s a student, 25 years old and apparently ‘ _v. hot!_ ’ in Becca’s words.

When the clock hits 5 PM, the guys practically push him out the door with instructions not to just glare at the poor guy and not to do anything they wouldn’t do. That doesn’t really restrict Bucky much. Dum-dum’s yell of “Wrap it before you tap it!” follows him up the street but Bucky shakes his head and adjusts his bag on his shoulder as a scandalised woman gives him the side-eye. Anyone would think he was a hermit, the way they’re going on.

Steve’s got some meeting with an engaged couple, so he’s not in when Bucky gets back, which is good, because Steve always has an opinion on Bucky’s outfit choices, which he never actually says out loud, just expresses through the medium of facial gymnastics. Steve’s face is very expressive.

Bucky wouldn’t care what he wore if Becca’s text messages hadn’t been extremely clear on what she’d do to him if he didn’t actually _try_ tonight. So he’s going to try. He’ll wear something that looks good and he’ll even smile.

At least it’s not happening at the family restaurant, Becca’s not that cruel.

He arrives early, because he completely believes Becca capable of _everything_ she threatens, and orders a drink to take the edge off.

Brandon arrives on time and he’s easy enough on the eyes, and Bucky’s going to stop comparing him to a guy he met yesterday and will never see again _any moment now_.

At first, Bucky’s optimistic that the evening won’t be as torturous as he’d thought. Although Brandon’s eyes do seem to keep pulling down to Bucky’s empty sleeve, that’s kind of normal, though; people take a while to get used to it.

*

Clint’s safe house is… not safe.

Someone’s been through it. The drawers have been torn out; the mattress has been cut open; it’s been so thoroughly gone over that Clint can’t see an inch of the floor.

His heart’s in his throat, because the place has been torn apart, and his next safe house isn’t within easy distance. He could make it, but he’d hoped. This place had ID, clothes and some cash. And, more importantly, weaponry. If he has to make it across the city with no weapons, he’s going to feel a target painted on the back of his head the whole way. He’s already twitchy from it.

He heads for the kitchenette, almost tripping over the cactus that Coulson gave him as a ‘safe house warming’ present. Clint’s managed to keep it alive through a system of steady and dedicated neglect, but it’s on the floor in a shattered pot now. He takes a moment to mourn for it, but moves on quickly. With a bit of luck, they haven’t found his hiding place.

Clint’s luck must be holding, because they haven’t.

Kitchen cabinets aren’t very efficient use of space, not really. They’re raised off the floor and, if you’re careful, you can make it so the bottom shelf slides out, and there you have a handy-dandy hiding spot for whatever you might want to keep safe.

Like a go bag, a spare bow, and a quiver full of arrows.

Clint checks the cash and the passport in the go bag. Everything is present and correct. None of his little booby traps have been set off. Then he gets the hell out of there, taking the stairs up to the roof and making his way three blocks over to sneak out of a completely different building. Someone might be watching. One thing working for SHIELD has taught him is that someone’s always watching. The only question is whether or not they’re on your side. And right now the number of people on Clint’s side is pretty much down to one.

On the streets again, Clint’s – well – at a bit of a loss. His safe house is compromised and he’s got nowhere to go. So he’s going to have to look for some sort of empty place to squat. It won’t be the worst night he’s spent.

*

Bucky was wrong. The night is going to be terrible. Turns out that Brandon’s not just getting used to the space where Bucky’s arm used to be; he’s fascinated by it. Bucky’s very much of the opinion that people are welcome to their kinks, but he draws the line at this.

Brandon’s talking about his _darkness_ , about how he can see that Bucky’s soul is _damaged_ , how he has _difficulties_ coming to terms with his loss.

They’ve already ordered, and if they hadn’t, and if Brandon wasn’t Becca’s friend (apparently) then Bucky would be hightailing it out of the restaurant as quick as his legs would carry him. But he’s hungry and it’s a long walk home, and Becca will end him if he insults this guy, so Bucky sits tight and tries to turn the conversation around to something more palatable.

When the food arrives, Brandon keeps taking hold of Bucky’s hand across the table, telling him that he _understands_ how Bucky _feels_.

Right now Bucky just feels hungry and pissed off because he needs that hand to eat, and his starter is going cold. He shouldn’t have ordered a starter. But it had been going so well, and he’d been so hungry.

Fuck it.

Bucky jerks his hand away and Brandon looks upset, until Bucky excuses himself to go to the bathroom and he puts on his _understanding_ face again.

He’s already texting Steve before the door to the bathroom has fully closed behind him.

_‘Help._ ’

*

Clint’s been mostly ignoring the messages that come up on Steve’s phone. He hopes there’s nothing important, but he’ll get it back to him just as soon as Clint’s worked out where he’s sleeping tonight. He’s about to ignore the latest message too, but Bucky’s name catches his eye and the message underneath stops him in his tracks.

‘ _Help._ ’

Clint’s not far from the apartment. He can make it in twenty minutes if he tries, and he’s armed. He’s still injured, but he’s fought in worse shape than this before.

If he’s brought the Maggia, or _Hydra_ , to Bucky’s door, he’ll never forgive himself.

_‘What’s up?’_ He texts back, turning in the direction of Bucky’s home, and stepping up his pace.

‘ _This date. He’s awful._ ’ Bucky texts back. Clint stares at the words in disbelief for a moment. They don’t make any sense. Until he remembers that Bucky isn’t aware that Clint’s on the run from a million different bad guys and might not even know that the person he’s texting isn’t his friend Steve.

Clint is pretty sure that he’s made of bad ideas and bandaids. He should definitely not be doing this. He should be dropping this phone off and slipping away into the night like a good little assassin.

If Coulson were here, he’d talk him out of it.

If Nat were here, she’d just knock him out, bundle him into a car and get the pair of them the hell out of dodge.

_‘Where are you?_ ’ he texts back. It doesn’t take Bucky long to send him the restaurant name, and Clint looks it up on a map. It’s not in Maggia territory… _technically_.

It’s sort of… Maggia adjacent?

It’ll be fine. What’s the likelihood of anyone seeing him? There are millions of people in New York. He’ll be fine.

Sure, it’s not exactly a life or death situation, but the guy’s in need. He asked for help; Clint owes him. So what’s he supposed to do? Just ignore a cry for help? A literal cry for help? Plus, he needs to give the phone back. Two birds, one good deed, no problem.

So Clint’ll swing by, do the decent thing, say thanks and give Steve’s phone back, then he’ll be on his merry way. In, out, shake it all about.

No. No shaking. This is an entirely altruistic mission and in no way motivated by Clint’s downstairs brain.

*

Brandon’s earnest expression makes him look a little constipated, and the seductive leer he attempts to pull off next just makes Bucky feel like his skin’s crawling. He’s still trying to hold Bucky’s hand and still missing the part where Bucky needs it to eat. And when he holds it, he pets it like a chinchilla or something. Honestly, if Bucky wasn’t really enjoying this steak (when he gets a chance to eat any of it) he’d leave anyway. He can explain things to Becca.

But Steve’s on his way, or so the text says. Honestly, Bucky was just hoping for an emergency phone call, but Steve’s coming, so Bucky can handle this for a little longer.

And now Brandon’s talking about Bucky’s accident.

No.

That’s enough. Bucky is forcibly removing himself from this conversation.

He’s about to rise from his chair when a hand slides over his shoulders.

“Buck! Bucky! Buckaroo!” Clint’s voice says. Unmistakeably Clint’s voice, Bucky hasn’t forgotten it since yesterday. He remembers the way it sounded during the conversation over dinner, asking Steve questions and actually listening to his answers.

But what is Clint doing here?

Bucky stares at him, mouth falling open slightly. Clint just stands there in the middle of the restaurant, dressed in Bucky’s old hoodie and jeans, two black eyes, and a devil-may-care grin.

“I was just walking past and I saw you and I thought ‘That’s Bucky! I haven’t seen him since that trip to Mexico. The one with the goat, the hooker and the banana.’” Clint winks, broad, exaggerated. “Remember that?”

It takes a moment for Bucky to catch on, then he runs with it. He leans back in his seat, relaxed as he can make himself and smiles.

“How could I forget?” he asks. “I never knew you could do that with a banana.”

“What can I say? I’m a very talented guy,” Clint says, winking again. The thought makes Bucky swallow.

Clint grabs a chair from the table behind him and pulls it over to sit down, settling into place like he belongs there. Across from Bucky, Brandon makes an irritated sound and glares at the side of Clint’s head.

“What happened to that goat in the end?” Bucky asks. “I lost sight of it after the cops came.”

“Probably still out there somewhere,” Clint says. “Roaming free, feeling the wind in its fur.”

“Excuse me,” Brandon says, leaning forwards and angling his elbows so they cut in front of Clint. Bucky raises an eyebrow at him, the smile not falling from his face. “I’m not sure who you are…”

“Clint!” Clint says, like he’s happy to see the guy, like Brandon’s just some guy that he’s met in a bar. “Sorry. Very rude of me. I’m Clint. Bucky and I go way back. He’s the one who taught me how to fart the national anthem.”

Brandon’s mouth opens but no sound comes out. He stares at Clint so hard that he misses the way Bucky has to bite his lip in an attempt to hold back his laughter.

“We’re on a date,” Brandon says, his tone glacial and his face sour.

“Seriously?” Clint asks, oozing enthusiasm. “That’s great! Look at you, all dressed up! Damn, Bucky, he’s way out of your league. Hotter than Ian, that’s for sure. But you didn’t keep him around for his looks.” Clint elbows Brandon in the side with a meaningful leer. “If you know what I mean,” he says. The words aren’t necessary, everyone knows what he means. The poor waitress who passes their table blushes furiously and avoids Bucky’s eyes.

“That wasn’t Ian,” Bucky says. “That was Isaac. Ian was the one who liked leather.” Yeah, two can play this game, and he’s not about to let Clint have all the fun. Brandon swallows hard.

“Oh boy, yeah,” Clint agrees. “I’d forgot about that.” He grabs some of the food off Brandon’s plate and stuffs it into his mouth before continuing to talk. “You’ve got some eclectic tastes. I remember.” He leers again, but this time at Bucky, and there’s a heat in his eyes that Bucky has to work really hard not to react to. Clint turns to Brandon and leans forwards. “There was this one guy, David, Daniel–”

“Don,” Bucky supplies.

“Right, right… Really loud. Not just in the bedroom either. He used to get so pissed off. He’d just scream at us. Didn’t like Bucky staying out late. Didn’t like him drinking. Didn’t like his friends, which is just insulting. I mean, I’m very likeable.” He looks to Bucky, who nods.

“I like you,” Bucky agrees, his tone a shade too honest.

“Thanks!” Clint says. “But Donnie kicks me off the sofa.”

“The sofa?” Brandon asks, his mouth is still half open in disbelief.

“Yeah. When I’m in town I usually crash at Bucky’s,” Clint says. Then he turns to Bucky as if  a great idea’s just occurred to him. “Speaking of, don’t suppose you’d mind if I…?”

“Of course not,” Bucky says. “How long are you in town for?”

“No clue,” Clint says easily. “Could be a few days, could be a year. We should catch up properly.” He takes a gulp of the wine that Brandon had spent long minutes agonising over ordering, then sets it back in front of him.

“Yeah, you still got your key?” Bucky asks. Clint’s face falls into this hang dog expression like a kicked puppy, and he reaches up to scratch the back of his head. Bucky hopes he doesn’t reopen the wound there.

“I think I lost it in Georgia – the country, not the state,” he clarifies, like that’s important. “You know how it is. I ended up naked in a river.”

That’s not a visual that Bucky really needed, and he forces himself to push it out of his head. He’s pretty sure that picturing someone else naked when you’re on a date is bad manners.

“No problem,” he says instead. “I’ll get you a new one.”

“You have a key?” Brandon asks. Bucky wants to tell him to keep up, but he’s trying not to be rude. Clint nods and claps Bucky on the shoulder again, letting his fingertips linger on the exposed skin of Bucky’s neck.

The shiver that passes through Bucky is because Clint’s fingertips are still cold from the outside air, though that doesn’t explain why the touch makes him feel so warm. He ends up staring at Clint’s face, his eyes stuck on the line of his jaw, where the stubble’s longer because he obviously missed a spot when he last shaved.

Bucky bites his lip and tears his gaze away.

“Of course I’ve got a key!” Clint says “Mi casa es su casa, right? Or I suppose su casa es mi casa.” He laughs like it’s the funniest joke he’s ever heard. “Don’t worry, though. You won’t even know I’m there tonight. I’ll just take the sofa, let you two get on with getting on.” Clint winks again, and Brandon’s face pales.

“Tonight?” Brandon says, his eyes flickering between Clint and Bucky and then down to his plate. “I… ah… I don’t think anything can happen tonight. I have… I’m late for. I should let you two catch up. Clearly you’ve got a lot to discuss.”

“Aw, no,” Clint says, his face falling. “Don’t be like that. I don’t want to ruin your date. I’m discreet, I swear.”

“No,” Brandon says, firmly, standing up. “I’m not sure that James and I are well suited to each other, anyway.”

Bucky makes his face appear at least a little disappointed.

“If you’re sure,” he says.

“Very,” Brandon says. “I’m sure you two will… find something else to do with your time.”

Then he disappears and Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. Clint slides from one seat into Brandon’s vacated place and starts eating his food with gusto.

“Dick left you with the bill,” Clint says after a moment, then seems to realise what he’s doing and looks down at the forkful halfway to his lips a little guiltily. “Is this okay?”

Bucky chuckles and nods.

“It’s fine. Shouldn’t let it go to waste.” Clint grins and digs in again. “So… why are you here?”

“Mmph,” Clint says around a mouthful, then reaches down to pull something from his pocket. It’s Steve’s phone. Bucky frowns at it.

“Steve gave me this before I left this morning,” Clint says. “In case I needed help before I found N… my friend.” He shrugs. “You asked for help.”

“Steve gave you his phone?” Bucky asks. Clint looks concerned for a second, like he’s worried Bucky thinks he stole it, but Bucky’s pretty sure you don’t bring the phone back if you steal it. There’s also the fact that Bucky knows Steve well enough to know that it’s exactly something he would do, without even thinking about how much he needs his goddamn phone. Idiot. Bucky's going to give him a good talking to about that, although maybe not too long, because it all turned out alright in the end. “And you decided to what? Scare my date away?”

“Worked, didn’t it?” Clint asks, smiling. He’s got something stuck between his teeth, which makes Bucky have to repress a laugh. “Hey, I am good at plans.” He waves a fork in Bucky’s general direction.

“You could have just phoned me,” Bucky says, getting back to his steak now there’s no one around to monopolise his hand. “I’d have said it was an emergency. That’s what most people do.”

“Oh? Right.” Clint looks crestfallen. “I didn’t think of that.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Bucky says. He considers Clint for a long moment. “You’re a bit weird, aren’t you?” Clint raises an eyebrow.

“And you’re a picture of normalcy,” he says. He’s got a point there.

“So did you find your friend?” Bucky asks. He’s not expecting the question to make Clint’s smile falter.

“Sort of,” Clint says. “I went… home, but…” Clint draws in a deep breath, his eyes falling to look at the table top. Bucky has the distinct impression that Clint’s trying to come up with a convincing story. “I can’t go back there. I grabbed some of my stuff, but it’s not safe right now.” Bucky’s eyes narrow. Clint’s home isn’t safe. What’s that supposed to even mean? “I’m meeting my friend in a few days and I’ll be okay until then.”

“You got somewhere to stay?” Bucky asks. Clint still isn’t looking him in the eye, just looking down at his plate like the secrets of the universe are written there, in al dente veg and slightly overcooked chicken.

“Yeah,” Clint says, but it’s uncertain.

“Liar,” Bucky says, setting his fork down. “We’ve still got a sofa, you know.”

“I can’t,” Clint finally looks up, his expression deadly serious. “You don’t know what you’re offering,” he says.

“I’m offering a roof over your head,” Bucky says. “It’s a basic human right.”

“Then you don’t know who you’re offering it to,” Clint says.

“Maybe not, but I’m still offering,” Bucky says.

“You’ll regret it,” Clint says.

“Pretty sure I won’t.”

*

The food settles in Clint’s stomach as he walks back to the apartment at Bucky’s side. He’s eaten better in the last few days than he’s done in months. Weird, the way things work out.

They’ve fallen into a companionable sort of silence. Clint knows he’s making a mistake, but he’s going to be selfish. The world is falling down around his ears, so he’s going to take these few days and he’s going to make the most of them. Who knows what’ll happen after he meets up with Natasha. If he’s only got two days to have some fun, then he’s going to damn well try.

“So what was so bad about the guy, anyway?” Clint asks, kicking at a can left on the sidewalk. “He seemed a little stuffy, sure, but not terrible.”

Bucky shudders a bit next to him, and his gaze drops down to his feet. He mumbles something.

“Sorry,” Clint says. “Didn’t catch that. Even with my ears in I’m still not perfect.” Bucky looks at him then, his eyes stormy.

“He was a creep. Kept goin’ on about my arm. Kept lookin’ at it. Wanted to know how it happened.”

Clint makes a face.

“No wonder you wanted out of there.” He doesn’t ask why Bucky didn’t just get up and walk out. It’s none of his business really, and it’s clearly not something Bucky wants to talk about, so he lets it go.

“It was an accident,” Bucky says, though. Just loud enough for Clint to pick up.

OK, so they’re talking about this.

“Used to work construction,” Bucky says. “The dock redevelopment. Some girders weren’t properly secured. I fell; they fell with me.” He pauses to take a deep breath in and then let it out, like the air leaving a balloon. “I’m lucky. If they’d fallen differently it woulda been my chest that was crushed, not my arm.”

Clint’s not sure what to say to that. He’s seen agents get injured in the line of duty before, of course, and he’s had friends not come back from their missions. SHIELD isn’t for the faint of heart. But he’s never had someone do something that _permanent_.

“Sucks,” he says. It’s inadequate and really fucking useless, but what else can he say.

Bucky laughs, it’s a bit too loud and a bit too broken to be healthy, but when Clint looks over at him his eyes are smiling as well as his mouth and he nods.

“Yeah, it does,” Bucky agrees.

They fall silent again for the rest of the walk, until Bucky’s apartment building is looming over them.

Clint looks down the street. He should go.

He looks back at Bucky and he knows he’s not going anywhere.

“You comin’ in?” Bucky asks, and the question seems to have weight to it.

“Sure,” Clint says. “As long as I’m not outstaying my welcome.”

“Nah, you’re still welcome. Trust me, you’ll know if I don’t want you here.”

Bucky holds open the door, pushing it back behind him so that Clint’s got to go through between him and the doorframe. Their bodies pass close together, and he can feel Bucky’s body heat. It makes his heart pick up the pace a bit.

“Then I guess I’m coming in,” Clint says.

The apartment’s quiet when they push the door open, and Clint looks around for Steve.

“Asleep,” Bucky whispers, coming up close to Clint’s side. “He’s not usually up as late as last night. Early mornings.”

Ah right, Clint remembers now. Bucky’s leaning down to whisper right next to his ear. It might just be to help Clint’s hearing aids pick it up, or maybe it’s because he knows that this way the rush of air across Clint’s neck is making his hair stand on end.

“So I guess I’ve got the sofa,” Clint says slowly, turning to look Bucky in the eyes.

Bucky smiles, slow and lazy, his hand coming to rest on Clint’s hip and his head coming in close so their chests almost touch every time they take a breath.

“You don’t have to sleep on the sofa,” Bucky says.

“OK.” Clint tilts his head back, giving another quick glance at Bucky’s face, just to make sure that they’re on the same page here. From the look that he gets in return, and the way Bucky’s hand slides around his hip and then down to palm his ass, Clint guesses that they are. He reaches up his own hands to Bucky’s neck and pulls him in.

***


End file.
